Abbeyton
by Mouse Soup
Summary: Summer cuts through Mossflower like a knife, leaving the smell of death hanging in the alleys. In the wake of a brutal murder, the abbot calls a meeting with the mayor and the captain of the guard.


The sun beat down with relentless zeal as Brungle stepped out of the Guard barracks and surveyed the city before him. The chaotic mass of buildings that constituted Abbeyton sprawled to the edge of Mossflower Wood. His sweeping gaze fell on the Grunge, at the utmost edge of the trees, and his eyes wandered through the dingy, worn-down buildings until they came to rest on the burnt-out shell of a large building. He sighed at the carnage. It felt strange to say in light of the tragedy, but they had been lucky. In the cramped spaces of the Grunge, an uncontrolled fire should have spread like a bothered beehive, and few beasts would have been able to escape the flames. To say that any loss of life was somehow lucky was perhaps callous, he knew, but he found it difficult to imagine the hundreds that might have died otherwise. But better flames, perhaps, than starvation. He wiped a paw across his forehead. Briefly, he allowed himself to imagine diving into a river, cool under the shade of the yew trees, and letting the current drag him lazily downstream. A swim would be a good way to escape the heat, but he had places to be.

Behind him a bell rang, echoing like a thunderstroke. Brungle turned toward the sound. The massive gates of the famed Redwall Abbey loomed into the air. With a grunt, he glared at the structure. He set the image of calm rivers and cooling shade into the back of his mind. Sighing, he set off for the Abbey at a hurried pace, knowing his work wouldn't let that happen today.

"Ho there, gatekeeper," he called as he approached the ancient gates, reaching out a paw and banging on the door. A wizened face peered through the gatehouse window over spectacles and faded whiskers.

"Ho there, Captain Rudderfletch." The voice that called back wavered, yet remained full of youthful mirth. "Come back for second lunch already? It's still noon."

Brungle eyed his paunch with a frown as the gates swung open. "I ain't that bad, Mimmo," he said. A mouse trundled out of the gatehouse with the help of a walking stick that was almost as gnarled as the beast wielding it. The gatekeeper chuckled, leaning on the staff and looking curiously up at the taller beast. "Besides," continued the otter, giving the old mouse a reproachful look. "Now ain't the time fer such things."

"I suppose not," sighed Mimmo. "I suppose I forget sometimes. I do not eat very much at all these days anyway." He paused. "Still, it is an odd time for you to be here, my friend," he said, pushing up his glasses. "Is there any particular reason for such a visit?"

Brungle's frown deepened as he crossed his arms. "Ain't here fer lunch, Mimmo. Got business wi' the abbot."

"Ah, right." The mouse nodded. "The mission fire. Of course— nasty business, indeed."

"Aye," said the otter.

"Poor Midgeon," murmured Mimmo.

"Poor Midge," said Brungle, echoing in agreement.

"Well, then," said the mouse after a moment of silence. "You'd best come with me." He gave the otter a sober glance. He ushered Brungle through the gate. Brungle's eyes meandered around the grounds as they walked. The flowers were not blooming as they usually would this time of year, and the trees stood leafless under the scorching sun. Still, the peacefulness here was a stark contrast to the bustle of the city below. There were no busy workbeasts with rude glares and low growls as they rushed about their business, and there were no merchants beckoning and caterwauling from their stalls. The most welcome absence, though, was the smell of death and fear that lingered under the heat of summer, hanging in the streets and alleyways of the city. Here, the only movement was the gentle stirring of the dead grass, the only sound a distant buzz from the beehives. The faint scent of the kitchens wafted towards them, but that was all. Brungle always marveled at the quaint picturesqueness of the Abbey, which seemed so far removed from his own world. The circumstances that brought him here, though, somewhat lessened his appetite for the scene.

"Speakin' of the abbot, how's he, er...y'know..." Brungle's voice faded as he awkwardly fumbled for words. The abbot's health was a subject that most in the abbey danced around ever since the winter, when the ancient squirrel had collapsed, foaming at the mouth, and been forced to lie bedridden for days, drifting in and out of an incoherent daze.

"How should you expect him, you mean?" asked Mimmo. A sad smile etched itself across his face. "Well enough mentally, at least. He may lack strength, but he's been as sharp as a whip since recovering— though Sister Pansy is worried this state of lucidity will not survive any subsequent conniptions."

"Aye, but ol' Pansy'll be takin' right good care of him, I know."

Mimmo chuckled. "That she is. She hovers over him like a mother sparrow. She is a rare beast, that one." He paused, looking uncertain. "Brungle, might I ask you a favor?"

"Aw, y'know ya can, mate."

"With Sylsley, he's..." Mimmo hesitated, searching for the right words. After a moment, he continued. "He's doing as well as can be expected, but he's tired. Anybeast can see that. In times such as these, he is wont to give more of himself than he is capable of giving. Should he falter—" The mouse stopped suddenly and shook his head. "Support him, would you? He has always been strong, but I fear for him some days."

Brungle fixed his gaze upon the door to the Abbey halls. "Ye didn't even hafta ask that, y'know."

"I know, I know. I'm just worried, is all. Ah. We're here." The mouse led the otter up to the doors and began reaching for a handle with a shaking paw.

"Oi," said Brungle, "let me, mate." Grabbing the handle, he pulled open the door and held it open for the aged gatekeeper. As they entered the Great Hall, a fox decked in finery strode back and forth, muttering to himself. His head whipped up at the sound of the creaking doors.

"Captain." He greeted Brungle with an air of stiff formality.

"Mayor," the otter replied, without even so much as a glance. Striding brusquely, he brushed past the fox. The mayor fell into step behind him, while Mimmo lagged a small distance behind.

"Slow down," wheezed the mouse. "Some of us need three legs to walk." Brungle looked back over his shoulder.

"Sorry, Mim," he said. "I ain't got time to waste. I know the way an' the abbot knows I'm comin'. I'll see ye on the way out."

Mimmo shrugged, waving his cane in acquiescence as the other two reached the doorway at the end of the hall. Leaving the old mouse behind, Brungle led the fox through the doorway and up a flight of stairs, before continuing down a smaller hallway for a few moments. When they reached the door of the abbot's study, the mayor was panting slightly. Directing a disparaging glare toward the fox, Brungle rapped his knuckles on the door. It opened to reveal the greyed face of a squirrel enveloped in an abbeybeast's habit.

"Captain Rudderfletch. Mayor Lowtail. Please do come in." The two beasts followed him inside and waited in polite silence as he shuffled to his desk and sat down.

"Father Sylsley," began Brungle. "I apologize fer not bein' able ta meet with ye earlier, but I had some business down at the station."

"Of course," replied the squirrel, nodding absently. "Understandable, given the circumstances. I—"

"Look," interrupted the mayor, pacing with exaggerated exasperation. His eyes were terse and narrowed, and his tail flicked back and forth. "We don't have time for this. Let's get down to business. I realize that this is an awful event. My condolences to you, Sylsley, and all here, of course. A terrible tragedy." He stopped pacing for a moment to look at the abbot, and Brungle was almost impressed with the sincerity in the air of sadness the fox attempted to adopt. "However, this does put me in somewhat of an … awkward position, you see."

"Of course," drawled Brungle. "We couldn' bear fer beasts' death t' make ye uncomfertable."

With an icy glare at the otter, Lowtail continued. "The three of us know what the citizens of this town do not. This was no accident, but rather a premeditated attack. The thing is, we've had a fallow spring, as I'm sure you are both aware. With food scarce, a certain climate breeds. Captain, I am sure you feel it. How do you think beasts will handle the news that a beast, and brother of this very abbey, no less, was murdered?" He paused. "We can't let this go public. Who knows how they'll react to our good captain's methods?"

"What exactly are ye sayin', fox?" Brungle growled.

"I'm saying that I'm not sure you understand the...complexities of the situation, Captain," Lowtail said, wrinkling his nose in derision.

"An' I'm not sure ye understand the complexities of what it takes t' solve a murder," retorted the otter.

The mayor raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware there was any complexity to beating vermin senseless."

"Oh, I'll show ye the complexities of beatin' a vermin senseless, brushtail," snarled Brungle, taking a step toward the fox.

Lowtail faced contorted into a sneer. "Why you—"

"Gentlebeasts," the abbot interjected sharply. His paws steepled in front of him, and he looked back and forth between the two with a deep frown. "Enough. I understand your distaste for each other's methods. But we face a rather unique situation here, as I'm sure you would both agree. Now is not the time for useless bickering."

"Look, Father," said the mayor. "I bear no ill will towards the woodlanders, but I can't say that this feeling runs both ways. Beasts find out that an abbeybeast was murdered in the lower quarters, and we'll have a riot on our hands."

"An' how am I supposed ter catch a murderer if I can't investigate?" asked Brungle.

"Well," responded Lowtail, "I can't help you with that. The livelihood of this city depends on my vigilance, and I think one monk's life— no offense, Father— isn't worth sacrificing the well-being of the entire population."

The abbot held up a paw. "Captain, you will continue to investigate this matter," he said. "However, you will only do so at the utmost discretion. I'm afraid our good mayor is correct. It may be difficult to maintain order if this becomes public knowledge. I have trust, though, that you are most capable of the task." Brungle opened his mouth to protest, but the stern look on the abbot's face quelled his objection. The squirrel continued. "And I expect, of course, that you will have our mayor's full cooperation and support in this endeavor."

"Support?" Lowtail said. "We don't have the resources. They've been stretched thin trying to feed the populace."

"Of course," said Father Sylsley. "But this is serious business. Somebeast is out in that city murdering goodbeasts. Remember that Midgeon was not the only innocent to lose his life. Dozens of vermin and woodlander alike lay in the grave or on the sickbed because of this. I don't think it needs to be said what we have to do." Frowning, the abbot pushed up his glasses. "The divide between vermin and woodlanders is still considerable, unfortunately. Bridging that gap was just one of the missions Brother Midgeon had. A trial would, while doubtless being successful considering Captain Rudderfletch's particular adeptness, in all probability yield a vermin perpetrator, given the location and nature of the crime. Of this, I am sure you are aware." Fox and otter nodded in unison. "Now, I think it safe to say we can assume that the woodlander's response when they find out a vermin killed a brother of this order will be poor. And the vermin, when they find that yet another one of them has been made the victim of our so-called justice, will behave no better."

"So why waste the effort," demanded Lowtail. "If the end of all this is the abject deterioration of public order?"

"Justice, Mayor Lowtail. There must be justice, or order will be lost either way."

"But if we can't hang the bastard," said Brungle, "What are we supposed ter do?"

"Simple enough, Captain," said the abbot. The squirrel pulled off his glasses and began polishing them on the hem of his sleeve. "Find the beast, and deal with him quickly and quietly."

"Father," said Brungle. "I'm not sure what ye mean."

"Oh, I am sure you do, Captain." The abbot put his glasses back on.

"Sylsley," began Lowtail uncertainly. "I am not sure that such a course would be prudent. Every beast, even one such as that which the captain now hunts, deserves a fair and public trial. You yourself helped pen the law, and—"

"I am aware of what I wrote, Mayor," interrupted the abbot. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "As you kindly pointed out earlier, we must take the wellbeing of every beast into account. This is a delicate situation. Already, the citizens' anger threatens to spill out into violence. The weight of hunger and fear presses down us all. A trial will only be the spark that lights the flames. This is a thing we cannot risk. Ideals are beautiful things, but at times like this there are certain notions we must sacrifice for the good of the beasts whom we serve. It is not with a light heart that I have come to this conclusion, believe me."

Sylsley frowned. "I understand the premise of it all, Sylsley. It's just that something like this, if anybeast catches wind of it..." He paused, shaking his head. "How do we justify it?"

"What did you suppose the good captain will require your help for? It is doubtful that you could add much to his investigation, and even more doubtful that he would let you intervene. What you can do is ensure that any word or whisper of such an investigation is hidden in the underbrush." Standing up, he gave both of them a long look in turn. "My friends, I know well your history and disdain. But we cannot allow petty rivalries to stop us from doing what we have to do."

"Would ye really call it petty?" asked Brungle, tilting his head back to look down his nose at the mayor. The fox responded to the otter's scowl with a sneer. Brungle's lips curled into a snarl. Lowtail could stand there and protest on moral grounds all he wanted, but Brungle had enough experience with him to know he was not as concerned with fairness and justice as he made out. There was always an ulterior motive with Lowtail, though he liked to protest righteousness to anybeast who would listen. "If ye think I can trust 'im—"

"What is our responsibility, Captain?" Sylsley cut in, paws spread wide as leaned forward over his desk. He turned to Lowtail. "Mayor? To whom do we owe our bodies, our sweat, our blood? Is it to ourselves, or is it to the beasts that look to us for guidance, for protection, and for leadership?" The squirrel's eyes bored into them in an obdurate glare. Brungle looked down at his footpaws, and from the corner of his eye he watched Lowtail fidget uncomfortably as he, too, avoided the abbot's stare. Sylsley continued. "Like it or not," he said, "we must work together. We must trust one another." With a sigh, he sank back into his chair. "It is no simple task, I know, but it is a necessary one."

Neither fox nor otter replied, standing in sober silence for a long moment. Brungle waited for the mayor to open his mouth, not wanting to be the first to speak. Finally, Lowtail drew in a breath. "I suppose," he began, "what you're saying makes enough sense. I still don't like it, though."

The abbot arched an eyebrow. "You have a preferable course of action to suggest, then?" The fox sighed and shook his head. Sylsley turned to Brungle. "Captain? You have been rather silent."

Brungle chewed the inside of his lip. He didn't like it either. He wasn't used to surreptitious action like this. That was Lowtail's domain, and he'd often derided the fox for it. Something else felt off, too, but he couldn't quite place what. Still, he supposed, at the end of the day the outcome was the same. Whether the beast ended up hanging for all to see or lying in an unmarked grave made little difference as far as justice was concerned. Finally he shrugged. "Got nothin' ta say."

"So, it is decided, then?" asked the abbot. The beasts in front of him nodded. He gave yet another sigh, and leaned back in his chair. Suddenly he seemed very small and frail, a shadow of the beast who had so confidently determined the course that would dictate the fate of thousands of beasts not seconds ago. "Very well," he said, closing his eyes. "Times such as these, sometimes I think..." Here, he trailed off, taking a deep breath and lapsing into silence.

"Father Abbot?" Brungle asked, taking a step forward. Mimmo had mentioned that he was weak, Brungle recalled, but that now seemed to have been an understatement to avoid unpleasantness. The old squirrel seemed like he would crumble into dust at the slightest touch. Lowtail looked on nervously, and his tail began to sway erratically back and forth again. The abbot did not respond, so Brungle, in search of reassurance, tried to get his attention again. "Sylsley?"

Sylsley blinked. "Oh, Captain, Mayor." He smiled and waved a paw. "I'm fine, I'm fine. However, I think I must rest soon. Sister Pansy will be coming to assist me. Perhaps that will be all for today."

"Of course, Father Abbot," said Brungle. He motioned to the fox, and they walked out of the room.

"Martin be with you," the abbot called after them as he stood up to close the door.

Brungle shared a look with the mayor as the door shut behind them. He knew that Lowtail had noticed too. As they walked back down the stairs in silence, the fox seemed to struggle with something, opening his jaws and clamping them shut repeatedly. "Well, ye've got somethin' ta say," he said, returning his gaze forward.

"I don't like it. And I know you don't either. I could see it stamped across your face." Somewhat suprisingly, the fox said this without any of his usual hostility, despite the tense atmosphere that had enveloped the meeting.

"Whether I like it or not ain't the question," said Brungle. He refused to look at Lowtail, but the fox was right. Something didn't sit right. However, that didn't matter. Sylsley had never led him wrong before.

"What is the question, then?" asked Lowtail.

"I've always listened to 'im," said Brungle with a shrug. "Simple as that."

"Can we trust his judgement in such a state, though?" Lowtail raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"I trust ol' Sylsley more'n meself," said Brungle, and, after a moment's consideration, added, "an' much more'n you."

"You saw what I did, Captain. Whether we want to believe it or not, that clearly isn't the whole truth." Lowtail paused as they reached the door. Brungle pulled it open and stepped outside, followed closely by the fox. They stopped on the veranda. "Look. Think as little of me as you see fit, Captain, but know that I want what's best for the beasts of this town, the same as you. Something is off. I know you feel it."

"What else can we do?" Brungle retorted. "Keep actin' like things ain't as bad as they are? This way they at least don't get blown up even worse'n that."

Lowtail sighed. "I suppose. It could be nothing more than dread that no matter what we do, we won't be able to stave off death and disaster." The fox looked up at the sky with a wan smile. "It's like Sylsley said: this is our responsibility. Our burden to bear— the weight of a thousand beasts. Only history will judge if we bore it well."

The fox was right in spite of himself, Brungle knew. The otter took a deep breath and looked around the grounds, an unfamiliar heaviness in his stomach. The trees that had seemed so peaceful before now stood like skeletons, and the distant hum of the beehives grew steadily louder in his head, becoming a throbbing and incessant drone. He shook his head to clear the buzz, but it refused to go away. A swim, he thought. That would clear his head. Cool him down. But there was no time for that, and wouldn't be for a long while. "Aye," he said finally. "Yer right. Ain't much ta do about it but hope fer the best." Lowtail nodded, and both creatures fell into a somber silence as they made their way toward the old Abbey Gates.


End file.
